All evils here contaminate the mind,
That opulence departed leaves behind;
For wealth was theirs; not far removed the
date,

When commerce proudly flourish'd thro' the state;

At her command the palace learnt to rise, Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies;

The canvass glow'd, beyond e'en Nature

warm,

The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form:

Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display'd her sail :

While nought remain'd of all that riches

gave,

But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave:

And late the nation found, with fruitless skill,

Its former strength was but plethoric ill.

Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied

By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride;

From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind

An easy compensation seem to find.

Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd,
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade :
Processions form'd for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove.

By sports like these are all their cares beguiled,

The sports of children satisfy the child :
Each nobler aim, represt by long control,
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind:

As in those domes, where Cesars once bore sway,

Defaced by time, and tott'ring in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,

The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile,

Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey

Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread,

And force a churlish soil for scanty bread:
No product here the barren hills afford

But man and steel, the soldier and his sword:

No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter ling' ring chills the lap of May:
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms
invest.

Yet still, e'en here content can spread a charm,

Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.

Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho' small,

He sees his little lot the lot of all;
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head,
To shame the meanness of his humble shed;
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet
deal,

To make him loathe his vegetable meal;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short
repose,

Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes;

With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep;

Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,

And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, ev'ry labour sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round

Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer
On some high festival of once a year,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow;

Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low;

For, as refinement stops, from sire to son
Unalter'd, unimproved, the manners run;
And love's and friendship's finely pointed
dart

Falls blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast

May sit, like falcons cow'ring on the nest :
But all the gentler morals, such as play
Thro' life's more cultured walks, and charm
the way,

These, far dispersed, on tim'rous pinions fly,

To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,

I turn; and France displays her bright domain:

Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please,

How often have I led thy sportive choir,
With tuneless pipe, beside the murm'ring
Loire !

Where shading elms along the margin

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,

Thus idly busy rolls their world away:

Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,

For honour forms the social temper here:
Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains,

Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land:
From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise;
They please, are pleased, they give to get

esteem,

Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they

seem.

But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought,

Enfeebles all internal strength of thought; And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ;

Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;

Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a

year:

The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,

Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
To men of other minds my fancy flies,
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies.
Methinks her patient sons before me stand,
Where the broad ocean leans against the
land,

And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow :
Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry

roar,

Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore:
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile,
Sees an amphibious world beneath him
smile :

The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale,
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,
A new creation rescued from his reign,
Thus, while around the wave-subjected
soil

Impels the native to repeated toil,
Industrious habits in each bosom reign,
And industry begets a love of gain.
Hence all the good from opulence that
springs,

With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,

Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts

Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear,

E'en liberty itself is barter'd here.

At gold's superior charms all freedom flies,
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves,
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform,
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the
storm.

Heav'ns! how unlike their Belgic sires of
old!

Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold; War in each breast, and freedom on each

brow;

How much unlike the sons of Britain now!

Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing,

And flies where Britain courts the western spring;

Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,

And brighter streams than famed Hydaspis glide;

There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on every spray; Creation's mildest charms are there combined, Extremes are only in the master's mind; Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,

With daring aims irregularly great;

Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by;
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's
hand,

Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,
True to imagined right, above control;
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to
scan,

And learns to venerate himself as man.

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here,

Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear;

Too blest indeed were such without alloy;
But foster'd e'en by freedom, ills annoy;
That independence Britons prize too high,
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social
tie;

The self-dependent lordlings stand alone,
All claims that bind and sweeten, life
unknown;

Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held,
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd;
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Represt ambition struggles round her shore;
Till over-wrought, the general system feels
Its motions stop, or phrenzy fire the wheels.
Nor this the worst. As nature's ties
decay,

As duty, love, and honour, fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,

Still gather strength, and force unwilling

awe.

Hence all obedience bows to these alone,
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown;
Till time may come, when, stript of all her
charms,

The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms,

Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,

Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame,

One sink of level avarice shall lie,

And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die.

Yet think not. thus when freedom's ills I state,

I mean to flatter kings, or court the great:

Forced from their homes, a melancholy train,

To traverse climes beyond the western main Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,

And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound?

E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays

Thro' tangled forests, and thro' dangerous ways;

Where beasts with man divided empire claim,

And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim;

There, while above the giddy tempest flies,
And all around distressful yells arise,
The pensive exile, bending with his woe,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,
Casts a long look where England's glories
shine,

And bids his bosom sympathize with mine.

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind. Why have I stray'd from pleasure and

repose,

To seek a good each government bestows?
In ev'ry government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or
cure!

Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make or find:

With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,

Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,

Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel,

To men remote from pow'r but rarely known, Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our

own.

Goldsmith.-Born 1728, Died 1774.

919. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring swain,

Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, And parting Summer's ling'ring blooms de

lay'd:

Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please:

How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,

For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!
How often have I bless'd the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading
tree:

While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd ;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went
round;

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired:
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the
place;

The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks

reprove:

These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,

In sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;

These round thy bow'rs their cheerful in

fluence shed,

These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled.

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ;

Amidst thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain :
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But choked with sedges works its weary
way;

Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries.
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring
wall;

And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,

Far, far away thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay; Princes and lords may flourish or may fade: A breath can make them, as a breath has

made:

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began,

When every rood of ground maintain'd its

man;

For him light labour spread her wholesome store,

Just gave what life required, but gave no

more:

In all my griefs-and God has given my share

I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bow'rs to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting, by repose:
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd
skill,

Around my fire an ev'ning group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;

And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns

pursue,

Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,

I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return-and die at home at last.

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,

A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try,

And, since 't is hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous

deep;

No surly porter stands, in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last,
His heav'n commences ere the world be past.

[SIXTH PEI

Swe pow'rs of truth, that bid my clos aspire,

Up yonder in my bosom drive the low desire! There, as I pass fair Freedom, taught alike The mingling

age, and tyrant's angry steel flow'r, alike undone

below; The swain responsi The sober herd thempt, or favour's fost'rimsil-and size

young;

The noisy geese that gains the changeful clim The playful children ju

school:

The watch-dog's voice whisp'ring wind,

n to secure ; tha ev'ry soil,

spoke

overn those that s aims can

And the loud laugh that mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the And fill'd each pause the nightingale made.

ion'd

But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
But all the blooming flush of life is fled :
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for
bread,

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till

morn:

She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flow'r grows wild,

There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis

close,

The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change
his place;

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant
train,

He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain;

The long remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims

allow'd;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow
done,

Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields

were won.